


The Secret Gardener

by CorbiesNest



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Hitch - Freeform, M/M, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorbiesNest/pseuds/CorbiesNest
Summary: The year is 2040 and a journalist is sent to interview Harry Styles. The former boybander has for several years been living quietly in the Cheshire countryside with his distinctly upper-crust wife. However, now he is considering a return to music. The journalist goes to find out more...I tried to write this in the manner of an interview in 'Homes and Gardens' or in one of the weekend supplements to a newspaper like 'The Times' or 'The Telegraph'. Gardens feature prominently in the interview!





	The Secret Gardener

There is something quintessentially English about Harry Styles’ home. Nestled in the heart of the Cheshire countryside, his Georgian manor house looks as though it should be inhabited by a Jane Austen heroine, rather than a singer from what was once Britain’s biggest boyband.

The sense of entering an English idyll is increased by Styles’ wife Philippa, a friendly blonde who when I arrive immediately offers tea. Chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen Philippa shepherds me and two elderly Labradors into a spacious drawing room then departs, presumably to locate the promised tea.

Left alone with the dogs (and a very fluffy ginger cat who is occupying the comfiest looking chair in the room), I seize the opportunity to investigate the interior decoration of the man who made teenage hearts flutter from Singapore to San Francisco. 

The drawing room is a mix of old-fashioned charm and miscellaneous muddle. The wall-paper has a pattern of birds and flowers reminiscent of Harry’s ‘Sign of the Times’ era performance suits. Scattered across every surface is a clutter of photographs, books, musical boxes (at least three), china ornaments, and vases of flowers. Somebody clearly likes flowers.

I have just plunged my nose into a particularly lavish arrangement of roses and peonies when I hear a noise behind me, and turn round to discover that Harry Styles has entered the room. 

Styles extends a hand and says, ‘Hi, I’m Harry,’ almost as though he thinks I might not know who he is, then settles down on an upholstered stool (what my mother would have referred to as a ‘pouf’) and proceeds to pat the head of one dog, while he rubs the other Labrador’s tummy. Both animals appear completely besotted.

Sitting opposite a middle-aged Harry Styles is a strange experience. On one level he seems like a stereotypical posh Englishman. He’s wearing red cords and a check shirt, only something about its cut makes me think it might be rather more expensive than those favoured by the local farmers.  
There are other hints that all may not be as it seems. His hair is artfully dishevelled, and when he looks up at me saying, ‘How can I help?’, he grins with the smile that launched a thousand gifs.

Hastily gathering my professional dignity, I ask the question on everyone’s lips (or at least the question on the twitter accounts of women of a certain age), ‘Why are you returning to music after such a long break?’  
Styles pauses for a moment, then says slowly, ‘I thought it might be fun.’  
‘And wasn’t it fun before?’  
He answers still more deliberately, ‘Yes it was, great fun, and then it wasn’t. So I stopped.’

Intrigued, I press him for more information. ‘When did it stop being fun?’  
Harry twiddles a strand of his famous curls thoughtfully, ‘I don’t know exactly, towards the end I suppose.’  
He suddenly gets up and wanders over to the flowers I was admiring earlier. ‘Do you like the peonies? I grew them myself.’  
Slightly bemused by the change of direction (pun definitely intended) I agree that the peonies are beautiful.  
‘I think they’re an under-rated flower.’  
I’m not quite sure how to reply to this, and somewhat ridiculously say ‘A little like yourself!’  
Styles laughs, ‘Oh no, quite the reverse, I was never under-appreciated.’  
‘But you never got a Grammy. Sheeran did, Bieber did. But not you.’ I persist.  
‘You think I deserved one?’ Before I can answer he carries on, ‘Of course I didn’t. I was just guy from Cheshire who got lucky. Some might say very lucky.’

At this moment Philippa returns, and Styles goes to help her with the tea-tray.  
The next few minutes are occupied with pouring tea and offering milk and sugar. Philippa waves an exquisite bone-china plate in my direction, ‘Would you like a crumpet?’  
I take one, it is wonderfully warm and oozing butter, then I realise I don’t know how to eat it without getting grease down my chin. Styles I see has eschewed the crumpets in favour of a small piece of lavender shortbread.

Just as my mouth is full of hot buttered crumpet, Style smiles serenely and murmurs, ‘So what did you want to ask?’  
I’m not sure whether the timing is deliberate, but I swallow hastily and inquire, ‘What will be different about this tour?’  
‘His age!’ Philippa interjects.  
Styles seems amused, ‘Absolutely, xylophones and zimmer frames, that’s me!’ Then more soberly he says, ‘In some ways nothing, in some ways everything.’  
‘In what way everything?’  
He seems to think carefully about his answer. ‘I suppose for a long time I thought good music was about unhappiness. And now I’m not unhappy, and I’m not going to fake it for some other bloke’s idea of art. I want to make music about being happy.’  
I’m intrigued, ‘Isn’t that what One Direction was about?’  
‘To an extent. I think we certainly tried to make other people happy, and that’s an amazing thing to do.’  
I notice the slightly guarded way in which he has answered.  
‘You weren’t happy yourself?’  
‘I don’t know.’ He pauses. ‘It was an incredible time. We were unbelievably lucky to experience it.’  
‘That’s the second time you’ve mentioned luck, do you feel you don’t deserve your fame?’  
Styles bites his lip, for a moment he looks almost boyish, then replies, ‘Absolutely, I’m here because a lot of lovely people chose to buy our music. There are so many other people in this world who deserve money and recognition, people like nurses, teachers, farmers, factory workers, even rubbish collectors. They’re the people who make the world go round. I’m just a muppet who pranced with a microphone.’  
‘A muppet who made people happy.’ Philippa has spoken up again, this time rather gently.  
‘Maybe. I suppose there’s worse things to be.’

I sense that perhaps I’ve probed a little too near the bone. ‘What makes you happy these days?’  
He smiles at Philippa, ‘My wife, people I love, music, gardening.’ A thought seems to strike him, ‘Have you see the garden?’  
I confess I have only briefly glimpsed it. I do not confess that I have only the slightest interest in other people’s horticultural endeavours, as Harry is clearly enthused.  
‘Oh let’s show her the garden, Pippa’, then to me, ‘You’ve come at just the right time of year.’  
I smile politely, and agree to be shown around the garden.

Styles leads me off through the house, Pippa and the dogs trailing in our wake. As we go towards the back of the house I notice that the high ceilings and classical plasterwork of the front rooms have given way to more homely spaces with lower ceilings and wood panelling.  
‘It’s an interesting house,’ I venture.  
‘Oh I love it,’ says Styles, ‘You know it’s grown over time. The posh Georgian stuff is just a front, at the back is the real house, the Tudor one. That’s one of the reasons why I bought it. What you see is far from what you get.’  
For a moment I wonder if Styles is talking about more than just the house. Then I discard the thought, if nothing else Styles seems genuine – for goodness sake how many other ageing popstars would be dragging a journalist to see their herbaceous borders.

We go out into the garden. The sun is just managing to peek out from behind the clouds, and the terrace and plants are bathed in a golden glow.  
Styles skips down the steps onto the lawn and says ‘You must come and see the walled garden. It’s terrifically tranquil.’ (A combination of words which somehow feels very Stylesian.)

We walk round to a space enclosed by slightly crumbling brick walls, wide flower beds on all sides, and in the centre a pond with carp and waterlilies. Styles has brought some crumbs from tea which he proceeds to feed to the fish, who rise to the surface in a feeding frenzy, not unlike the screaming girls who used to mob his concerts. I can see why Styles likes this garden. It feels enclosed and safe, yet open to the sky, and also strangely timeless.

We are chatting by the pond about One Direction, and whether Styles thinks there’ll be a reunion (he doubts it) when a man with a wheelbarrow  
appears. Styles breaks off our conversation and goes over to the man. They return together, and Styles says, ‘This is Mitchell. He’s the real gardening genius.’  
I say hello politely. It seems almost typical of Harry Styles that he bothers to introduce the gardener.

The two men and Pippa continue to show me round the gardens, pointing out different plants and highlighting changes they’ve made, and mean to make. Styles is particularly proud of his orchard where he is growing historic varieties of apples and pears. It is too early in the year for fruit, instead the trees are covered with pale white blossom, gently tinged with pink. A small twig with flowers on has broken off, and Styles picks it up and offers it to me, ‘Here, take it, the apples that weren’t meant to be.’  
For a moment, as his hand touches mine, I feel the centre of the universe. I can see why an entire generation were captivated by this man, or boy as he was then. Then I realise his wife is beside me – which prevents me making too much of a fool of myself.

I walk back to the house with Philippa, and we talk about her career as a ceramics expert for Sotheby’s (which is where she met Styles one day at a sale), and then about her childhood growing up in Berkshire near the River Thames. ‘I had a perfect childhood, really unbelievably delightful,’ she says.  
‘And now a perfect marriage?’  
‘Yes. I’m very fortunate,’ she replies, but something in her voice is slightly strained.  
We are nearing the house, and I see Harry Styles has paused on the terrace with Mitchell. The two are looking out at the garden in the early evening light. Styles is leaning comfortably on the gardener’s shoulder, the other man has his arm around his waist. I don’t think I have ever seen two people seem so utterly at ease. I look round wondering if Philippa has noticed, but she appears preoccupied with dead-heading pansies.

I leave not long afterwards, Styles insisting that I take some of Philippa’s homemade lavender shortbread with me. (It is a generous gift as it turns out to be divine.) All three of them, Harry, Pippa, and Mitchell, wave me off from the front door, the two dogs acting as outriders to my car during the drive to the front gate.

I am part way down the M6 when I suddenly have an uncomfortable recollection, ‘Wasn’t Mitch the name of the guitarist on Styles’ first solo tour?’ I pull into Stafford services and get my phone out. Sure enough I find a biography of Mitchell Rowlands, guitarist and writer on the first Harry Styles album. He has a few other writing credits, but nothing for the last five years. 

It occurs to me that here might be a story I’ve missed. I get Styles’ number up ready to call him with more questions. Then I slowly put the phone down without dialling. For it seems to me that whatever the story, Harry Styles is at peace – and who am I to question happiness?


End file.
